


Chinese Boxes

by GryfoTheGreat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Identities, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2013-08-13
Packaged: 2017-12-23 09:15:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/924593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GryfoTheGreat/pseuds/GryfoTheGreat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She hides behind identities and dumps then when she is done, but she can't quite dump Irene Adler.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chinese Boxes

Her name isn’t Irene Adler. Obviously. Irene is her middle name, Adler her mother’s maiden name. Irene Adler is the closest she gets to actually being herself, however.

She knows her real name, the one you’ll find on her birth certificate, but subconsciously she locks it away in a box. Boxes. She sees her multiple identities as boxes, all shielding her. You could open them for ages, tearing wrapping paper, tugging bows, yanking the Sellotape off, but you’d never find the real her, ever.

One of her first identities was Sabina. The critics delighted in her voice, comparing her to angels. They would flock to see her sing her little heart out, whether she was perched atop a parapet in _Tosca or_ cocooned in her lover’s arms in _La traviata_. Her voice dominated, pierced hearts, broke dams of tears. She would have been quite happy to sing forever.

Of course, she couldn’t. It wasn’t an accident that ended her operatic career, oh no; it was a catastrophe. Wives grew jealous, assistants suspicious, and Sabina staged her suicide. People mourned over the travesty that was the end of her life, but she was soon forgotten as old news. Swept under the rug. Out with the old and all that. She couldn’t disagree, the new girl they had was brilliant.

(Sabina is put away in a box with all her old libretti and stage makeup.)

Another alternate identity is called Cassia. Cassia is a homeless girl who drifts around indie clubs and gay bars and wears leather jackets and not much else. Cassia hears things, gets things, does things that are outrageous and ultimately helpful.

Sometimes Irene wishes she were still Cassia. Sex can get a lot of scandalous information, but danger gets a whole lot more. Cassia was unbound by social compunctions, slept in trees sometimes and killed people with just a pen. Irene loves the pretty dresses and the makeup, but sometimes you just want to run away, yell ‘SCREW the world!’ very loudly and get off with a questionably dressed stranger who is probably not eighteen in a broom closet.

Cassia couldn’t last long either. Irene doesn’t quite remember, but she thinks someone put roofies in her drink and she took a drug cocktail and almost died. She remembers waking up and seeing the pitying faces of the nurses, observing her bony body and scarred arms. Irene hated that, hated the judgement, so she resolved to become better.

So she killed Cassia and got it over with.

(Cassia is stored away in a box with a LP that has her eponymous flower carved into it.)

Irene is still beautiful, even after her time as a druggie. She dresses up with the money Cassia had stolen, and worms her way into a political club. The slimeball whose lap she is in asks her if she likes to top.

“Oh,” she says huskily, red talons tracing his neck, “I’ve always been a bit domineering...”

The world to which she, as Anya, is now introduced to is perfect. On the surface most people just see black bonds, riding crops, metal and eyeliner and smudged red lipstick. Beneath, there are power plays and escapism and pain soon soothed. It’s quite amazing, she thinks, like a metaphor for the world. Power rules all and some are made to submit.

She dumps the politician.

Anya’s name is spread. She contracts with people and gets her assistant (oh yes, she has one now) to give them a glass of water afterwards. Anya doesn’t stay in one place for too long, disappearing into the breeze when the agreements grow too strong, the terms too tightly bound.

Anya also grows terribly rich. The role of Mata Hari is one she plays with ease, and soon her head swims with innumerable secrets. People tell her things she doesn’t want to hear, but she listens anyways.

Ultimately, she grows bored of Anya. Anya is not Irene. Irene wishes to be herself, new and improved and not known all over London.

(Anya isn’t put in a box. Anya is shoved into the bin.)

So she becomes Irene Adler.

The story of Irene Adler is known. The end is known to two.

(It’s after midnight and they’ve been walking through this wasteland for what feels like hours. According to him, there’s a drop off outside the city where the helicopters are very easy to infiltrate.  Their black robes are liberally spattered with blood, her phone is dead and he’s leaning on her heavily, hamstrings slashed. She mentally thanks God that Sherlock Holmes is a very skinny bastard.

“I’ve lifted women heavier than you, you know,” she says conversationally, and he looks at her sideways, eyes doing that weird multi-coloured thing.

“Yes.”

“You’re not hungry, I suppose? Never are.”

“What day is it?”

“Wednesday.”

“I’ll be fine for a little while.” He smirks to himself, as if indulging in some private joke.

She huffs under her breath, pinches him through the robe, and feels guilty when he looks at her properly. He probably learnt that look from Watson. “I’m wounded,” he says.

“Yes.”

“You annoy me.”

“Yes.”

“Do you know that that ringtone is really annoying?”

“Frustrating?”

“Annoying.”

“Your hair is annoying.”

He actually looks properly offended.

“Sorry, that was a lie. Your hair is very... cherubic.”

He adjusts himself in such a way to put more weight on her injured side.

“Your hair is dyed.”

“Obviously,” she says.

They don’t talk for a while. She watches the hills rise and fall, undulating lazily over the landscape.

“I was an opera singer once, you know,” she says suddenly.

“Hmm?”

She lets out a few melismatic notes. He claps slowly and she laughs, as harshly as her singing was smooth.)

So Irene Adler puts herself away as well.

She goes to America and adopts a town near Boston. Her studio apartment contains a laptop and little else. She becomes a novelist under the name ‘Salome Hudson’ and gets quite famous.

Eventually, the English news reaches the East Coast. She dumps the paper and checks the blog.

There’s nothing but a video of Moriarty. Acrid bile clogs her throat.

She checks it every day until the 16th June-

_He was my best friend and I’ll always believe in him._

-and her heart breaks for John Watson.

It’s maybe three months later and she’s on her first book tour. Through the judicious use of social media Irene’s globe-spanning thrillers have become bestsellers. Her contoured face with its neat blonde cap of hair smirks at people from magazine covers, internet articles and even from billboards.

The bookshop she’s in right now is very, very nice. It has that sort of old world charm, all mahogany and Queen Anne furniture. She’s been signing for about an hour, maybe, when she chances to look up at the current signee.

Perhaps his hair is a different colour and so are his eyes, but she wouldn’t mistake them anywhere. Irene never forgets a face.

‘ _Hello, Mr. Holmes,’_ she writes. ‘ _Having a good holiday? Maybe you should have left a note. Love, the Woman.’_

He takes the book back and scans the inscription. “I did,” he murmurs. “Isn’t that what people usually do?”

She smiles benignly at him. “Move along, sir, you’re blocking up the queue.”

He waves a dismissive hand at her and moves along swiftly. She watches him disappear into the book-laden crowd, a smile still playing at the corner of her lips.

“What was that?” her assistant mutters.

“The only man who ever defeated me,” she replies, and gets back to work.

Life waits for no-one. Neither does Irene Adler.


End file.
